“That’s too bad,” Joanna said as she picked up her bag. “Because I’m leaving now.”

And she did.

I stood there for a long time, staring at the door. I wasn’t hoping it would open or anything. I knew she wasn’t coming back. But I wanted her to. I wanted to see that door knob twist. I wanted to see her face.

Eventually I sat down on the couch. There I stared intently at the blank screen. I saw a man staring back at me who looked well into his thirties. In reality, I had only been thirty for a day.

Joanna could wait long enough not to go on my birthday. I understood then why we didn’t celebrate together. What felt worse was how I didn’t think this was anything worth making a fuss over. I didn’t even point it out. We had been together long enough not to need to make a big deal over such a thing as getting a year over. We hadn’t done anything for either of our birthdays for years.

At no point did she ever complain.

I listened. I heard everything she said. I couldn’t get all the stuff done around the house that I did if I didn’t.

I didn’t get up from the couch that night. I didn’t make myself something for dinner. I didn’t get on the computer. I kept my phone by me, and I glanced at it every few minutes to see if she messaged me. But I never unlocked the screen. I spent my time staring at the man in the TV screen who looked sadder than I had ever seen him. Eventually he lied down onto his side and (and this was a hard thing to watch) cried himself to sleep.

The next morning my phone was dead. I searched frantically for a charger. It wasn’t in its usual place on the counter. Joanna must have packed that one. I went upstairs to use the one by my side of the bed. After waiting a few moments for my phone to power back on, my heart leaped at the sound of a notification. But it was only junk mail. On a different day I would have been excited about the deals in my inbox. Not anymore. I came to see my spending for what it was. Debt. And debt had cost me more than it said on the statement.

When I looked up from the phone, I saw signs of Joanna everywhere. She hadn’t fully closed the closet door. I sizable chunk of her wardrobe was missing. Her underwear drawer was slightly ajar, though from what I could tell, mostly empty. Some decorative items were missing from the dresser, though I couldn’t remember what they were. The top of the side table by her half of the bed was completely bare. I had no idea what used to be there either.

I didn’t watch myself cry that time. I could tell by the dampness of the pillow. I could feel it in the vibrations in the mattress from my heavy sobs.

I don’t remember much from that day, but I do recall how slowly the time moved. And I remember how, at some point, I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor. This was as far as I could make it after flushing the toilet.

On the next day, I built up the nerve to send her a text message. I got no response. Had I waited too long?

I had. I should have said something years sooner. I should have noticed. Her. Everything.

At some point I made my way downstairs and stuck something in the microwave. It was leftovers of something she had cooked. Even then, she was still feeding me. I broke down before the beep. By this point I was too hungry to walk away, but I sobbed into the container until there was eventually more water left in the bottom than food. Then I made my way back to the couch. I hated the man I saw staring back at me.

When I opened up my computer, I saw that Joanna had blocked me everywhere she could. I thought about sending her an email, but that felt wrong. She had made it clear that she didn’t want to hear from me.

I skipped work the next day. I called in and told them I was sick. There was no need to fake a cough. I sounded terrible. I was told not to come in the next day either. I didn’t.

After that, I finally took a shower. I’d like to say I didn’t cry. I did. But at least this time there was something to wash away my tears, and when I stepped out, I almost felt something inside. That feeling wouldn’t come back for a while. I definitely didn’t feel it again that day, or the one after. Only at the end of the week did getting dressed start to get a little easier.

A week after that, the crying stopped. I knew Joanna wasn’t come back. She’d left me. I couldn’t say the words out loud yet, but I could think them.

Then one day, sitting in front of the TV, I decided I could no longer stand the man looking back at me anymore than Joanna could.

“I’m leaving you,” I said.

Then I shaved, went out for a haircut, and picked out a new outfit. Just one. My debt would soon be all mine. But it was a start.